


all of these mistakes and many more.

by kxsumis



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 00:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8599906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kxsumis/pseuds/kxsumis
Summary: this isn't usually how you meet people. ----------Based on ''i’m in my underpants in a laundromat waiting for my clothes to get washed and your clothes are in the machine next to mine and i noticed that when you put your clothes in they were all covered in blood what the fuck’ au"





	

This isn’t how you usually meet people.

Sure, you’ve made some pretty weird first impressions. Like that one time you accidentally sprayed silly string all over Karkat Vantas in the hallway thinking it was your sister Jane on April Fool’s Day. Or that time you and Jade dumped a shit ton of packing peanuts into the wrong car.

This isn’t how you usually meet people. 

You’re at the laundromat at three o’clock in the morning, clad in only your boxers and some dirty, white socks. You’re playing Animal Crossing on your 3DS, sitting on the top of the washer, kicking your feet like a toddler. 

The laundromat is dimly lit. The rows of lighting in the back of the small room flicker every-so-often. The vending machine is making a soft humming noise a few feet away from you. The p in the neon ‘open’ sign displayed behind the window is out. The walls are white and boring, the floor is grey and boring. There isn’t much in here but the machines and a fake plant by the door that through the years has been made into an ash tray. 

You come here almost every weekend. Never during the day, though. It’s always in the dead of night, when no one else joins you but the occasional hungover teenager buying a Dr. Pepper from the vending machine or spirit passing through the liminal space. (Okay, you can’t really see the spirits, but you know that they’re there. You’ve seen Ghostbusters.) 

You don’t look up when you hear the bells jingle as the front door is pushed open. You don’t look up as a boy with blonde hair, wearing sunglasses in the dead of night, chooses the machine that just-so-happens to be  _ right next to _ your’s, out of literally any other one in the room. 

You’re tired and you’re cranky about the fact that summer is ending and hell (school) is starting on Monday, three days from now. It’s your senior year, and you know you’ve got this. You’ve always been a straight A student, always been well-behaved. It’s just one more year. Still, even though you know it’s gonna be gone before you know it and blah blah blah, you’re not looking forward to the work. 

You look up now.

The boy is a little taller than you, with lightly tanned skin and curly, dirty blonde hair. Freckles dot his cheeks. You think they’re on his nose, as well, but between the shadow of his Aviators and the dim light of the cheap fluorescent light bulbs, you can’t really tell. He doesn’t seem to notice you, as he’s sifting through his laundry basket. You notice that some of the plastic slits are cracked.

“Take a photo, it’ll last longer,” He says finally, knocking you out of your funk. 

“ _ Weeelll _ ,” you say, shutting your DS with a sharp click. “ _ You’re _ the one who decided to take the laundry machine right beside mine, and you seem kinda weird.” He’s looking at you now, one thick eyebrow raised above his sunglasses’ lense. You gesture vaguely to your own glasses. “You know, the sunglasses.” 

The boy’s gaze lingers for a while and he doesn’t say anything. It’s really fucking awkward, you decide after taking a moment to analyze the situation. The only sounds are the murmuring of the machines, the clanking of zippers and buttons against the metal on the insides of them. His expression is entirely unreadable, and you don’t think it’s only because of the sunglasses. You’re sure that even if he wasn’t wearing them, his face would be just as puzzling.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, my guy.” He says finally, dumping more of his clothes into the laundry machine. “Think of them as a fashion statement. Maybe you need to be more artistically adventurous.” 

“Noted,” you reply, watching him curiously. “But I’ll have to pass on the sunglasses. How do you even see? It’s the middle of the night.”   
He simply shrugs. “You get used to it.”   
“Huh.”   
You watch him as he empties his clothes, your eyes stopping once they catch a baseball tee with a pixelated record on it, a crack running down the middle. Sure, it seemed normal until you noticed the dark splotches of blood covering it. 

“Jeez,” You say, gesturing to it with your hand. “What happened?” 

The boy laughs an amused laugh. It kind of pisses you off. “He calls me weird and then demands my life story. Did you not learn basic manners? You don’t even know my name. I don’t even know your’s.” 

You huff. This guy is smug and obviously over-confident. Obnoxiously so. Even after he laughs, the ghost of a smirk tugs on the corner of his lips.

“My name’s John Egbert,” You say, despite your frustration. This guy seems like a total douche so far, but you find him interesting. It’s like you’re entranced by the soft curls resting atop his head, his sharp features peaking out from under the shadows that are being casted onto his face.

“I’m Dave Strider,” he replies. He doesn’t try to shake your hand or anything, but he instead holds the red and white shirt out in front of him, examining it. 

“I got into a fight. Almost broke my fuckin’ nose. I was just a little pissed at this dude, I wasn’t expecting to be facing off against Heavyweight Champion John fucking Cena or some shit.” Dave explained. 

“You don’t really seem to be the fighting type,” You chide, raising an eyebrow. 

Dave shrugs, tossing the shirt into the washing machine and shutting the lid with a loud, hollow thud of steel slamming against steel. 

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” He says, leaning in a bit closer to you. “I’m not.” 

You raise an eyebrow. You make a note that youŕe gonna do a lot of eyebrow-raising when it comes to this guy. 

“Then why did you get into a fight?” You ask him curiously. You really don't know why you're asking him so many questions. You know it’s probably super obnoxious, but for some reason, you can't help it. It isn't every night you meet interesting people at the laundromat. 

Dave shrugs again, simply, nonchalantly. He’s very nonchalant, you gather. He’s simple, easy to talk to. You like it, you think. 

“Someone insulted my brother and I,” He goes on to explain, hopping up to sit on the washing machine. It doesn't sound like he's gonna say anything else about it. 

“So you’re a family guy?” You decide to ask, attempting to derail the original topic.

Dave nods silently, reaching into his dark red hoodie´s pocket, pulling out a box of cheap cigarettes and a lighter. You gulp, and then you immediately curse yourself under your breath. You're seventeen for fuck’s sake! You shouldn't still freak out when you see someone pull out weed or alcohol or a cigarette. But you do, and it's suuuper freaking lame. 

He places the cigarette in his mouth and lets it hang there off of his bottom lip lazily. He pulls another out and offers it to you. “Do you want one?”

Oh, man. You feel like you’re back in elementary school when Jade was trying to convince you to eat a whole spoon of wasabi. Except Dave wasn't threatening to throw your Gameboy into the toilet. 

What would one cigarette hurt? It’s not like a couple drags off of it will throw you into a life of misfortune and crime. 

You must look like you’re contemplating the answer of life, the universe, and everything, because Dave nudges the cigarette towards you. “Ground control to Major Tom. Yes or no?”

You stare up at Dave, and then back at the cigarette. He’s looking at you from behind his sunglasses, one thick eyebrow arched in question. Well, what do you have to lose? 

“Sure,” You say finally, taking the cigarette from him. 

“Cool,” He replies before lighting his own, inhaling softly, the flame dancing over the bright, white tip. He exhales, a puff of grey smoke mingling with the still air around you. You follow his example, placing the cigarette in your mouth, wrapping your lips around it nervously.

Dave turns to face you, flicking the lighter on and holding it against your own cigarette. Dave stares at it for a second before snorting, smoke quickly wisping and curling from his nostrils. 

“Dude, you’ve gotta inhale.” 

“Oh, right,” You reply gingerly. You do as he says, your eyes glued to the tip of your cigarette. He moves the lighter away, and you assume that it’s lit. You watch the paper peel back, orange streaks guiding it further up the thin stick. 

It’s nice for a few seconds. You’ve never smoked a cigarette before, and this isn’t a John Green novel, so you aren’t very graceful about it. You cough and sputter, your lungs acting like they’re collapsing in on themselves. Dave laughs, easily taking a deep drag off of his own before pulling the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaling.

“Never smoked before?” He asks, but you know he knows the answer.

“Never,” you admit, your voice hoarse and strained, your face still distorted in pain. 

“Then why did you take the cigarette?” He glances at you with a pompous, lopsided grin. “That intent on impressing me?” 

You furrow your brows, heat budding underneath your cheeks. God, what a smartass!   
“No,” You answer defiantly, though he might have been right. He probably was right. “I just wanted to try, that’s all.” You look at your hand. The cigarette is still smoking, bright orange hues peeking out from beneath the dark, grey ashes.

You bring it to your lips again, closing your eyes with furrowed brows. You inhale slowly, taking it easy. Your lungs tighten like before, but you don’t let it bother you as much. When you exhale, it feels relieving, and burns less. 

When you open your eyes, Dave is smiling almost proudly, the cigarette hanging from his mouth idly. “Congrats, you did it.” 

You let yourself laugh. “Thanks, dude.”

“No problem,” he replies. You’re still smiling, even after you finished laughing. 

The two of you are silent for a while, the whirring of the machines and the wind softly jangling the bells hanging on the front door. It smells like smoke and the air is dry, but you don’t really mind. 

The two of you talk for a while, just about random shit, like you’re an awkward couple on your first date, trying to learn about the little things that make up the two of you. He asks you what your favorite color is.

“Blue,” you say after thinking for a moment. You’re still kicking your legs.

“Man, that’s cliche,” Dave replies, but there’s a smirk spreading across his lips. “But mine’s red, so I’m probably worse.” 

He asks you what you want to be when you grow up. 

You think for a moment, but your mind is completely blank, like static on the TV after the power has been out. It’s funny, you think, how when you were younger someone could ask you what you want to be and you’d have an immediate response. An astronaut, or a mad scientist, or a famous musician. Even if some of your childhood ideas were pie-in-the-sky, at least you, at one point, had aspirations and ideas. Now you’re completely devoid. You know you’re not the only one, either. Your dad is always telling you about how when he was in highschool, he wanted to be a detective or an archaeologist, but he grew up to be a lawyer. You don’t know if people give up on their dreams because they simply think they’re too hard to achieve, or because people are too afraid to try. 

“I don’t know,” You answer honestly, sparing Dave from your emo, philosophical internal monologue. “I just know I want to be away from here.” You glance up at Dave, who seems to be staring at the wall across from him. 

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” You ask. 

Dave takes a while to reply. He seems to be searching for words to speak, turning the question over in his mind. Finally he chuckles, turning his head to face you. His eyebrows are raised, and he’s smiling. “Better than Bro.” He says. You don’t know who Bro is, or why he’d want to be better than him, however you refrain from questioning Dave further. 

Another hour passes as the two of you wait for your clothes to finish. You go back to your regularly scheduled discussion, but the air seems a bit different now. The curiosity of who this Bro person is eats at your insides like a disease. 

Around 4:30, Dave dumps his clothes into his broken laundry basket and flashes you a grin. You’re folding your clothes and gently setting them into the basket. Jade will complain if her clothes are wrinkly. Dave is standing in the doorway. 

“I’ll see you later, Egbert.” He says, and then he’s out of the building, walking down the sidewalk. His figure is lit by the street lights he walks under. 

You can’t sleep when you get home. 

 


End file.
